It was everything the rest of the house was not—warm, inviting, flooded with light. Pale gold paper on the walls, cream-and-rose furnishings, crystal vases overflowing with roses, peonies, sweet peas.
“This is… unexpected,” she managed.
“I had it prepared.” He stood back as she entered. “If you dislike anything, it can be altered.”
“It’s perfect.” She crossed to the window overlooking the garden. “How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That I would like this—these colours, these flowers.”
A brief pause. “You wore a rose-coloured gown to the Ashford ball last Season. It suited you. And you spent most of the evening in the conservatory rather than the ballroom.”
“You noticed that?”
“I notice everything.” He stepped toward a connecting door. “My chambers are through here. The door locks from your side.”
She stared at the door, understanding its significance. “And after the month?”
“After the month, we renegotiate.” He drew a small key from his pocket and placed it in her hand. “Your privacy, my lady. Guard it well.”
Then he was gone, leaving her alone in her beautiful cage with a key that felt uncomfortably like a chain.
She sat on the bed—her bed, in her room, in her new life—trying to make sense of what had just unfolded. She was married. To the Beast of Berkeley Square. Who read Byron, noticed dress colours worn once a year ago, and granted her a locked door.
Nothing about this was what she had expected.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. A young maid entered, dropping a curtsey. “Begging your pardon, my lady. I’m Sally. His Grace said I’m to be your lady’s maid, if that suits you.”
“Of course.” Celine offered a reassuring smile. “And you needn’t worry—I’ve no intention of being overly exacting. We shall manage perfectly well between us.”
Sally’s shoulders loosened, just a little. “I… thank you, my lady. Shall I help you change? Dinner is at eight, and His Grace is particular about punctuality.”
“I’m beginning to understand His Grace is particular about everything.”
Something like amusement flickered at the corners of Sally’s mouth. “That’s one way of putting it, my lady.”
As Sally helped her out of the wedding dress, Celine caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked the same but different—something in her eyes had changed, though she couldn’t say what.
“Sally,” she said impulsively, “what is he like? Truly like—not what people say.”
Sally’s hands stilled. “His Grace is… exact, my lady. Everything in its place, everything according to schedule. But he’s fair. Pays well. Does not beat the servants or take liberties. There are far worse masters in London.”
“But is he kind?”
Sally considered this seriously. “I wouldn’t say kind. But he isn’t cruel. He’s simply… himself.”
Which told Celine everything and nothing all at once.
***
Dinner was an exercise in careful navigation. They sat at opposite ends of a table built for twenty, the distance between them feeling at once protective and isolating. The food was excellent—clearly a French chef presided in the kitchen—but Celine tasted very little, too aware of the silence stretched taut between them.
“You’re not eating,” he observed.
“Wedding-day nerves,” she said, setting down her fork.
“Are you nervous?”
